


Lord of the Hunt

by bendingsignpost



Series: Tumblr Fic [28]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Demigods, M/M, Nephilim, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Seduction, Sex, Sex Club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 05:54:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20402767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingsignpost/pseuds/bendingsignpost
Summary: “This is exactly what we need,” Gabriel insists, steadfastly steering Castiel by the shoulder. “Nowhere else like it.”“I’ve changed my mind,” Castiel decides for the both of them.“Too late!” Gabriel answers, taking himself—and the car keys—up to the front doors of the establishment. In the last remains of the sunset, the lights aimed at the building’s sign have begun to shine: against a deep red background, the black outline of a hunter blows the smoke off the barrel of a very suggestive gun. Beside that silhouette, a curling cursive reads “The Hunting Lodge.”





	Lord of the Hunt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [holy_tax_accountant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/holy_tax_accountant/gifts).

> holy-tax-accountant said:  
Demigod/Brothel, Destiel please? Thank you!! :D

“This is exactly what we need,” Gabriel insists, steadfastly steering Castiel by the shoulder. “Nowhere else like it.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Castiel decides for the both of them. “Your initial plan was better. We should do that. Do you need a guitar amp? I’ll find a way to make it work outside her house.”

Gabriel pushes him on. “The serenade plan is over with. And Kali roasted my last boombox. _Not _risking the guitar.”

“I’ll stay in the car,” Castiel says. 

“Nope!” Gabriel answers, taking himself—and the car keys—up to the front doors of the establishment. In the last remains of the sunset, the lights aimed at the building’s sign have begun to shine: against a deep red background, the black outline of a hunter blows the smoke off the barrel of a very suggestive gun. Beside that silhouette, a curling cursive reads “The Hunting Lodge.”

Gabriel pushes the door open like a regular... which he must be, if the bouncer’s reaction is any indication. Castiel has to stop for a finger prick test managed by a woman with sultry eyes, and Gabriel does him the dubious favor of waiting for the results. 

“Kali and I used to come play here all the time,” Gabriel sighs. “Play time for us, dinner time for them. Incubi, succubi, sirens, lamia, you name it. Hell, we had some veela a while back.” 

“Oh,” Castiel says, picking at the dot bandage he no longer needs on his finger. “That explains the blood test.”

“Yeah, it’s lineage, not STDs,” Gabriel says with a nod. “Can’t let a pure human run around in here.”

The woman with the sultry eyes returns and pronounces Castiel decidedly as a nephilim. Then she makes the mistake of looking to Gabriel and asking after Kali. 

Before Castiel has to hear the story yet again, he escapes from the waiting room, finely decorated foyer that it is, and slips into the club proper. The heavy wooden doors part easily beneath his touch, revealing yet another hall, this one with lush carpets and a coat room, complete with line. Already hearing Gabriel wax indignant behind him, Castiel presses on, keeping his trench coat with him as he passes through a curtained doorway. 

The music plays as low as the dim lights in the long, sumptuous room. Bars bookend the space. Alcoves dimple the far wall, and a dance floor dominates the center. The murmur of voices comes from the tables, the alcoves, the bars, and the hallways beyond, a flirty susurration punctuated by the occasional giggle or throaty chuckle. The room isn’t yet packed, but it’s clear that it soon will be. The plethora of species and powers already inside has Castiel closing his ethereal eyes tight against the impending headache of stimulation.

Pulse pounding louder than the low throb of the music, Castiel gets himself a drink. Approaching the nearest bar feels like a retreat, feels like being a mouse on display with hawks above. Although he sits far away from those already gathered, settling onto a stool hardly helps the sensation.

The bartender smiles at him across polished wood with teeth as pointed as his curling horns. “What’ll it be?” he asks, sliding Castiel a small basket of manna and then another of pretzels. “Ambrosia? Nectar?”

“I’d like an IPA, please,” Castiel says. 

Wind visibly taken out of the bartender’s sails, the demon tells him half-apologetically, “We only have the one.”

“That, please.”

Castiel gets his IPA. He turns on his stool to watch those already gathered, and those entering. From an entrance closer to the opposite bar, more people enter, those of a decidedly sexatarian nature. Something begins to coil low in Castiel’s gut when he catches the eye of a seemingly human woman across the room. 

He looks away. Pretends to watch the dance floor, not that a lamia dancing isn’t an unusual sight, tail and torso rippling with muscle. 

Slowly, Castiel sips. Gabriel emerges into the room, joins him long enough to grab a nectar, and promptly abandons him again. Castiel pulls out his phone and texts Balthazar. _Tomorrow, it’s your turn again_. 

He doesn’t expect a response, and he doesn’t get one. 

Gabriel charms his way across the room, and Castiel stays put. As the night lengthens, the crowd thickens, the air turning hot and musky sweet with the pheromones of so many predators prowling. Castiel loosens his already loose tie. He gets a second beer, a summer ale this time. The IPA’s quality had been worth the apology. 

As Castiel gets his drink, a larger group comes in and heads directly to his bar. Castiel duly relocates, avoiding the dance floor but hardly needing a nook. There are tables, high ones with tall chairs, and it’s here Castiel sits, politely taking up residence at a spot for two. 

“Is Gabriel hunting for you both?” a warm, amused voice asks. 

Castiel turns on his seat, and a pair of green eyes smile up at him from a handsome face. Paler than Castiel and dusted with freckles, the man nods toward where Gabriel has his arms slung around both a lamia and an incubus.

“We’re not together,” Castiel replies. “We came in together, but we’re not. Together.”

“He’s not using this seat, then?” the man asks, eyebrows raised. He gestures with a whiskey glass. 

Castiel shakes his head, and the man climbs into the chair with a lithe grace that proves his human appearance to be, at least partially, a facade. 

“What are you aiming for, tonight?” the man asks. 

Castiel narrows his eyes. “‘What’ implies a fetish.”

The man grins, as slow and smooth as melting butter. “Not what kind of person. What kind of fun.”

“I thought I’d sit here quietly,” Castiel says. “Make sure Gabriel gets home all right.”

“The Lodge has systems in place to make sure of that,” the man promises Castiel. “Plus, Gabriel’s a regular. Wouldn’t be the first time someone had to pour him back into his home.”

Castiel nods. Lacking anything else to say, he sips his beer. 

The man sips his whiskey. 

They look around the club together. People talking, dancing. Succubi whispering into willing ears, and incubi showing off the lengths of their tails. A veela twirls on the dance floor, and distantly, Castiel feels his pants grow tight. He lets the sights wash over him, allows the scents to suffuse his head and cloud his mind, and despite himself, he’s having a good time. 

Not as good as some others, it’s quickly evident. A gaggle of young women pass his table, and two immediately recognize the man sitting with him. 

“Dean, come on, you _have_ to come sit with us,” one begs. 

“If you insist,” Dean answers with a good-natured groan. He turns to Castiel. Reaches out. Squeezes Castiel’s wrist. 

“Duty calls,” Dean tells Castiel with a wink before dismounting the tall chair. When he walks away, there’s no swinging tail needed to emphasize his bow-legged swagger. The women cluster around Dean, talking, laughing, touching him as well as each other before they pile around a circular table in one of the alcoves opposite the dance floor. Though the alcove is framed with curtains they could pull for privacy, they keep their table on display, letting their exchanged kisses be seen. 

Dean’s left his whiskey glass, now empty save for the ball of ice that slowly slides back and forth against the side of the glass. 

Crossing his legs, Castiel continues to slowly drink. 

The music changes. The dance floor begins to encroach on the surrounding area even as more and more people split off, escorting each other by the hand toward a hallway that no newcomers enter through, and only the disheveled exit. Castiel watches across the dance floor, and while various members of Dean’s group peel away, Dean himself stays put. 

At some point, Castiel realizes he’s lost Gabriel. 

Immediately after, he realizes—acknowledges—he doesn’t much care. 

Again in need of a drink, Castiel goes to the other bar. Flagging down the bartender takes much longer, but the whiskey floods his tongue with a burn worth savoring. He returns to find his table occupied, and so stands by the wall. 

Eyes linger on him once more, the only figure still wearing a coat in here. He’ll pretend that’s why. 

Though people look, no one approaches him. Across the room, the same can’t be said of Dean. He gains and loses companions with ease, each approaching singly and yet always departing in at least a pair. Everyone who leaves Dean’s table heads immediately to what Castiel has mentally named the Hallway of Debauchery. 

But not Dean.

Dean remains. 

The night stretches on, far longer than Castiel ever planned on staying. Gabriel is still nowhere to be seen, presumably working through his heartbreak with the kind of help Castiel could never and would never offer him. But instead of looking for Gabriel, Castiel keeps his eyes on the man he can still see, the one he hasn’t stopped looking at. 

A rare moment arrives shortly after Castiel finishes his whiskey. He places the glass down on an occupied table, and when he looks back across the dance floor below to Dean, Dean is alone. 

Sitting tall in the alcove, arms around the back of the booth circling the round table, Dean is alone. 

And looking at Castiel. 

Dean smiles. 

Castiel’s pulse pounds, hard, beneath his wrist where Dean touched him. 

Castiel goes to him. 

Down a few steps. 

Across the dance floor, through the hot press of sinuous bodies. 

Up a few more steps. 

And forward. 

To stand before Dean, who lounges like a lord upon his throne. 

And Dean _smiles_. 

“What are you?” Castiel asks, effected beyond measure. 

“Why, are you developing a fetish?” Dean asks. 

“Yes,” Castiel states honestly. “What did you do? When you touched me.”

Dean doesn’t deny it. “You said you wanted a quiet night, so I marked you as my prey. Everyone else on the prowl tonight knows to stay away.” Across the table, he looks up at Castiel through eyelashes as beautiful as the curve of his lips. “Should I remove my mark?”

“No,” Castiel says. 

“Then pull the curtain,” Dean says. 

Castiel does. The thick red fabric sends them into a shadow as rich as blood, illuminated by percolating light. 

Castiel looks at Dean, at this man dressed as a woodsman, and something finally makes sense. 

“This is your lodge,” Castiel realizes. “You’re the hunter.”

Again not denying it, Dean spreads his hands. “Everyone needs to hunt. Might as well make a spot where the prey can enjoy themselves too.”

“What are you?” Castiel asks, already taking off his trench coat. 

“I’m the best lay you’ll ever have,” Dean says. “What are you?”

“Part angel,” Castiel says. He slides onto the seat, along the booth. “Seraph. What are you?”

Dean watches him approach, and he keeps his arm along the top of the booth. When Castiel comes close enough for Dean to touch, Dean simply keeps smiling that smile, and doesn’t move. “Why are you so curious about little ol’ me?” Dean asks. 

“Because I’m not normally interested.”

Dean blinks his way to a very different smile. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. 

“I’m what happens when a hunting god and a love god have a grandkid in common,” Dean answers. “Demigod of the chase, you could say.”

“Only the chase?”

“You can run the same race a thousand times,” Dean points out. “A lot of people do.”

Castiel puts himself close, more than close enough, but still, Dean does not reach. 

Castiel leans forward instead. 

Subtly, deliberately, Dean tilts his head. He looks at Castiel with dark, half-lidded eyes. 

Doubting himself every fraction of every inch, Castiel closes the gap between them. Presses his lips against Dean’s and inhales a rush of something beyond chemicals, beyond instinct. 

Even without opening his mouth, Castiel tastes divinity. 

Slowly, he pulls back. Only then does Dean shift his arm, holding Castiel in place instead of framing him. Dean opens his eyes slowly, and he looks at Castiel in a new way. Less sultry. More sincere. 

“There are rooms in the back,” Dean murmurs. He strokes a thumb across Castiel’s cheek. “One of them is even mine.”

“Take me there,” Castiel answers, knowing no other response. 

“In every sense of the word,” Dean promises. “Come on.” His hand charts a path down Castiel’s neck, along the underside of his arm. Never relinquishing eye contact, Dean slides his fingers between Castiel’s in a motion that turns the chaste into the profane.

Swallowing hard, Castiel scratches at the back of his neck with his free hand—and it is his _free_ hand, the hand not captured.

Dean draws him out of the booth, pulls the molten silver of Castiel’s interest tight with tension, draws metal into trembling wire. The heavy cloth of the curtain brushes over his side as they reenter the world outside, and yet, they are still apart.

Crowds part for Dean.

The air thins around him.

A wild, almost feral music accompanies his every step: wolf-whistles and raunchy cheers.

And still Castiel follows.

The Hall of Debauchery is long, lined with doors sporting _Do Not Disturb_ signs, with doors marked _Bathroom—Unisex_ and _Bathroom—No Sex Allowed_. Some doors stand wide open, inviting newcomers into the empty space, or cleaning staff. The space itself is strangely muffled, the music low and throbbing, the sounds from behind the doors presumably spelled into the semblance of privacy.

Despite Castiel’s very nature, he begins to feel sweat budding between his palm and Dean’s.

“When you said you had a room,” Castiel begins, and falters.

“I have a personal one,” Dean replies. “But if you’d rather try out one of the specialized ones, the doorknobs are color coded.”

“Your room,” Castiel decides.

Dean smiles, and he does it slowly.

They walk past muffled sounds of pleasure. They walk past sated clusters and couples heading in the opposite direction. Every person they pass seems to know Dean, to nod to him, to be so compelled to notice him as to ignore Castiel entirely.

Good. Dean’s attention alone is nearly more than Castiel can process.

Finally, they come to a door with a golden handle. Dean turns it, pushes it open, and gestures Castiel inside.

Walking into the demigod’s lair, Castiel feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. His underdeveloped ethereal eyes squint into the light that is Dean. The ones facing away from Dean take quick stock of the room: the ample bed, the frame against the wall, the structure like a gymnast’s vaulting horse.

“How?” Castiel starts to ask, only to change his mind. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “I mean, _why_.”

The embrace of his hand loosening, Dean frowns. “Why what?”

“Me,” Castiel says.

Dean’s faint smile returns, but it’s altered in its absence. This is something privately amused, nothing for show or temptation. “Honestly? What better prey than someone determined to have a bad time?”

“I wasn’t determined,” Castiel starts to say.

“Your face doesn’t hurt either,” Dean adds, and despite standing next to Castiel, Dean somehow steps closer. Centering himself in front of Castiel. Centering himself in front of Castiel’s world.

Every eye to Castiel’s disposal watches Dean, watches Dean _through_ Castiel’s own body if necessary, and this is how Castiel sees Dean’s response to this attention so very clearly.

Dean flushes. He inhales deeply, pink suffusing his freckled skin, and he captures Castiel’s other hand as well. “Ah, fuck,” Dean sighs. “That’s the good shit. Gimme that focus, babe.”

“Castiel,” he corrects. His body tilts into Dean’s, his mouth upturned as if to press his own name directly against Dean’s lips.

“Castiel,” Dean agrees, just before the kiss.

The kiss.

The swell of heat. Inside his ribs. Beneath his cheeks. At first ballooning out, at first expanding. Then crackling. Then shimmering, shivering. Heat, so much heat.

Dean parts his lips and, just barely, enters Castiel.

The force inside Castiel surges out, his light thrumming into sound, into a pitch that humans cannot hear and dogs cannot endure. His song shines within his throat, and yet Dean groans in counterpoint.

“Fuck,” Dean swears again, a praise-filled curse whispered into Castiel’s mouth.

Without parting further than that, Dean pulls him to the bed with hot hands and hotter touches. There, Dean pushes him down, pins him, and feasts.

He anoints with kisses. He marks with sound and heat. He grips Castiel tight in spirit, all the while shining.

“Can I get you naked?” Dean asks in a murmur as low and hot as magma, as slowly flowing and as inescapable.

Nodding his ear back against Dean’s mouth, Castiel complies without thought—only for Dean to exclaim in his ear.

“Sorry,” Dean’s quick enough to say, pushing himself up, looking down at Castiel beneath him. “You just, how? Where’d your clothes go?”

“Floor,” Castiel grumbles. He pulls Dean back down by the sides of his flannel, only banishing Dean’s layers there too once Dean’s back in position.

“Shit, you’re awesome,” Dean groans, pressing them back together, chest and stomach and crotch.

Castiel’s unheard song shines louder, and yet Dean groans louder still. He holds Castiel fast, and he rocks out of his previous rhythm.

“Can you hear me?” Castiel asks with his usual voice, uncertain.

“Fuck yeah,” Dean gasps. “Singing my fucking praises, shit, man.”

Eyes narrowed, Castiel licks his lips, lies back, and allows, as he so rarely allows, angel to intersect instinct.

“I praise you,” Castiel worships, speaking in words and singing in light.

“Glory be to the lord of the hunt. Glory be to his hunting grounds. Glory to he who stalks above the demon, the divine, the human, the supernatural.”

Dean’s head drops low, forehead pressed against Castiel’s neck. His earlier languid motions vanish, replaced with tension, with aching.

“I praise you in your forethought. I praise you, swift in pursuit, patient in the claim. I praise your mouth on mine, your lips on my skin, your light against mine, I praise, I praise… _oh_,” Castiel falters. He wraps both hands around the back of Dean’s head, holds tight as Dean’s tongue toys with his nipples, his sides. Castiel sucks in a hard breath as Dean kisses his stomach, Castiel’s cock pressing wet kisses of its own against Dean’s chest.

“Keep going,” Dean prompts, voice low and rough but his tongue low and smooth. His lips. His breath.

“Glory,” Castiel gasps, both hands unable to leave Dean’s head. “The glory of your heat, the divinity of your breath, praise and glory be to you who sucks me so. Your touch is pleasure. Your touch is your blessing. Take of me, I thee beseech. I give myself unto your keeping, I thee praise, I-”

Castiel chokes as Dean takes him deep, as Dean himself fails to choke. Castiel’s legs fight to jerk up off the bed, and Dean pins him down. Dean devours him. Feasts upon him. Grants him respite only to look down at Castiel with eyes lust-dark, lust-wild.

“Keep going,” Dean begs when Castiel expects a demand. “Seriously, Cas, you can’t—you gotta...”

“I extol the bliss of your lips, the blessings of your mouth,” Castiel praises, very pointedly, and Dean immediately drops back down. “I, I bask in your attentions, I pray for the satisfaction that in you resides, I praise you in your glory.

“I praise the hunter who feeds upon his quarry.

“I praise the lover who inspires his like.

“I praise the man with lips drawn tight about me.

“I, Dean, I, I praise, Dean, I can’t-”

Dean groans around him, off him, above him. Dean lies over him in a temporary cage of arms. Dean reaches down, and he takes them together. “Tell me, angel,” Dean begs. He presses hasty kisses against Castiel’s cheeks, avoiding Castiel’s mouth. “Please, Cas, shit, the god in me needs it.”

“Take of me,” Castiel urges.

“Fucking trying.”

“_Take_ of me,” Castiel repeats, and he seizes Dean once more by the head.

With one arm planted above Castiel’s shoulder, the other hand working them so desperately, there is naught Dean can do to resist:

Castiel draws him down into a press of lips as tight as the press of their bodies.

He opens his mouth to Dean’s.

And he sings with all his light.

  


  


  


Rapture.

  


  


  


Their breathing quiet, Castiel hoarse in a way he has never before been, they lie together. Entwined, both literally and metaphysically.

“Hey,” Dean murmurs.

“Mm?”

“So, uh.” Perhaps to silence himself, Dean presses a kiss against the back of Castiel’s shoulder. “You don’t gotta say yes.” Dean clears his throat. “I mean, kinda part of the hunting thing, that you don’t have to say yes.”

“Ask me.”

“I want to pursue you.”

Castiel rolls over. He rolls his eyes in the same motion, saving time. “Dean,” he says, and he slides his leg over Dean’s thigh. Uses his leg to tug Dean closer. “I do want to do this again.”

Staring at Castiel’s mouth, Dean licks his lips. “Yeah, no, definitely. You’re a wet dream come true.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Castiel says dryly. “I don’t sleep.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Okay, saving that fun fact for later. But, uh. I don’t just mean the sex. The hunt bit.”

“You want me to… feign resistance?”

“I want to seduce you away from stuff,” Dean says. “Kinda my thing.”

“Stuff,” Castiel repeats.

“Yeah.”

“Such as…?”

Dean shrugs with one shoulder, forcing Castiel to touch the lines of muscle, the dots of freckles. “Like responsibilities, for example. Just for example.”

Castiel looks from Dean’s freckles to his eyes.

Dean smiles winningly.

Groaning, Castiel flops onto his back. “Gabriel.”

“He’s _fine_,” Dean promises. “I mean, probably.”

Sitting up with no small regret, Castiel summons his clothes back on.

Dean whistles, a sad note of appreciation, but does little more than prop himself up on both elbows.

“I should get him home,” Castiel says, and presses one last kiss to Dean’s lips.

Dean clearly thinks otherwise, and the compromise somehow concludes with Castiel seated across Dean’s still naked lap.

“Goodbye, Dean,” Castiel says more firmly, pushing Dean back by the shoulder as he stands.

“Phone number,” Dean counters, rising to follow him. “Yours. Gimme.”

Castiel shakes his head, but before Dean’s face can fully fall, he adds, “Hunt me.”

“Hunt you?” Dean asks.

“Hunt me,” Castiel agrees, nodding his way both into and out of yet another kiss. Dean’s the one to ease him back this time.

“All right,” Dean says with a grin like worship, with eyes like prayer. “Go on, get outta here.” And he winks. “I’ll give you a head start.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, to see what else I'm working on, you can follow me on [tumblr here](http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/).


End file.
